


Hey God

by kaijuvenom



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: "so why did you make him fuck dukat", Blasphemy, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, a little bit at least, ailish once again says fuck catholicism, because All of them do, because it was for the DEVELOPMENT, do i need to tag every single weyoun who makes an appearance, except weyoun 8, i love weyoun more than myself, its a very thinly veiled metaphor, sometimes all you have to do for character development is fuck dukat a few times, that seems unnecessary, the founders are the catholicism, the original characters are unimportant and dont even have names, until the episode right after the weyoun six one, weyoun gets to be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuvenom/pseuds/kaijuvenom
Summary: There were a lot of things Weyoun didn’t know, things he was curious about that he’d want to discover only to be disappointed when he couldn’t experience them the way he wanted to. Love was one of them. Physical, emotional, platonic, and romantic, he wanted to know what all of it was like. It was one of the great unsolved mysteries of his life (or lives, as they were). It was a mystery he dedicated himself to solving, even if it was strictly against the Founders’ wishes.
Relationships: Dukat/Weyoun (Star Trek), Odo & Weyoun 6 (Star Trek)
Kudos: 17





	Hey God

**Author's Note:**

> _Hey God, don't you worry about me, I'm doing fine without your generosity. You get such a kick out of my tragedy. I forgot about you, so don't you worry about me._

Weyoun had stopped counting the years he’d been alive sometime after he became Weyoun three, but never quite managed to grasp the concept of love. It was a limitation in his programming, he supposed, something the Founders had decided he wouldn't need. It made sense, leaving room for him to love someone else in his genetic code left less space to love the Founders. He was made the way they wanted him, and Gods didn’t make mistakes, and Weyoun never questioned it. 

But he experimented. 

He knew the Vorta used to be normal, thousands of years ago, they’d been a species like any other, a species that made connections with each other and reproduced and felt affection for their offspring and partners. It stood to reason that the Vorta might still be capable of it. Physically, that is. Emotionally, he wasn’t sure. In fact, he was almost dead certain Vorta could be physically capable of--of having intimate relations with each other, because it was something all Vorta knew the Founders had explicitly forbidden. Why would they bother forbidding something they weren’t even cable of? 

And of course, Weyoun obeyed them. It wasn’t like he could find another Vorta who would be willing to indulge him in such an experiment, and even if he could, he doubted he could make himself disobey the Founders. The Founders trusted him, over the past hundreds of years, he’d become important to them, as important as a solid could be to them, of course, but still important.

Really, it was their fault when Weyoun began disobeying them. He was given diplomatic jobs, told to make connections with other species and get them under the thumb of the Dominion. They didn’t care how he did it as long as it was done. 

As it turned out, a lot of other species thought Weyoun was _pretty_. It wasn’t a word he’d ever heard used to describe him before, the Vorta could not appreciate aesthetics and the Founders didn’t care about such things. But according to others, he was _pretty_ , and he was fairly certain he liked it when people told him that. 

Being _pretty_ in the eyes of most alien species had its advantages. It was easier to establish a congenial relationship with someone when that someone thought you were attractive. Weyoun was free to explore and understand the intricacies of physical love under the guise of doing it to fulfill the Founders’ request to establish relationships with other species. 

But the only thing he truly learned was that he couldn’t appreciate it. He wanted to, he’d pray to the Gods that someday he’d wake up and be filled with desire if he thought they’d listen. He could move through the acts and understand what was happening, even find it fun in a way--it satisfied his curiosity and _yes_ , it was physically pleasurable, but that wasn’t all he wanted. Weyoun wanted to know what love felt like, and this wasn’t love. It was a physical, natural reaction of his body to feel pleasure from the experience, like walking into a warm room after being outside in the snow, but without that feeling of relief due to being safe from the elements. 

He stopped doing it, for the most part. He wanted to truly care about someone and he couldn’t, so he decided it would be more prudent to stop rather than continue to torture himself over wanting something that was forbidden. He felt guilty, terribly guilty, for letting the Founders down by doing things he knew he shouldn’t, and eventually, he confessed to it, the guilt eating him alive. He confessed to everything, to the desire to feel love, to his transgressions with alien diplomats, and the Founder he spoke to told him all was forgiven. That it must only be due to a problem with his genetics. They’d killed him right then and the next thing he knew, he was Weyoun four, a new clone, and apparently no longer _defective_. 

He didn’t tell them the longing for love hadn’t gone away.

He didn’t tell them the longing for love had existed since the first Weyoun. 

He was terrified of what they’d do, and the terrified feeling forced his silence. He never breathed a word of it again. Until the wormhole opened up, until Weyoun met all sorts of new aliens and found them… fascinating. 

The first creatures he encountered were on a starship captained by Benjamin Sisko, searching for the same group of rogue Jem’Hadar soldiers Weyoun had been after; they'd saved his life, funnily enough. He decided he liked them. They didn’t like him, especially not the captain, but it didn’t bother Weyoun. In fact, having anyone react towards him with any semblance of emotion was a welcome change. 

Odo, on the other hand, didn’t react to him with anything other than vague apathy, and Weyoun didn’t much care for that. 

The Jem’Hadar he’d been working with on that mission… for the life of him, Weyoun couldn’t remember his name now, but he’d said something about Weyoun’s loyalty to the Founders. He’d said his was stronger, _“it is the reason for our existence, it is the core of our very being”_ , and perhaps he’d gotten a bit more personally offended by it than he should have, but he’d _just_ been killed by the Founders for disobedience and the wound was still fresh. 

And then he’d died again. 

As soon as Weyoun five was born, he decided he hated Jem'Hadar. It was a euphoric feeling, hating something. He’d never felt it before. Perhaps it was a side effect of being killed by a Jem’Hadar, and that bitterness had transferred from one Weyoun to the next, he wasn’t sure. 

The next aliens Weyoun met were Cardassians. Cardassians were very different from Humans, Klingons, and the Trill Weyoun had met previously. He decided he liked them, too. They were an intriguing, rather violent people with a spirit that could rival a Klingon, only they didn’t serve worms at parties (not that Weyoun had anything against worms, he actually rather liked the way they wiggled). Most of them were loud, talked far too much, and would take any possible opportunity to get into an argument. 

Gul Dukat was the first Cardassian he met, and Weyoun couldn’t land on the appropriate feeling he had for him. Luckily, thanks to his newfound hatred for Jem'Hadar, he had a bit of a base for understanding any other feelings he might experience. He didn’t hate Dukat, of that much he was certain, and he wasn’t apathetic because it was _something_ and he didn’t have the faintest clue how to define it.

He enjoyed the way Cardassians spoke, the way every conversation with Dukat turned into a verbal battle, always close to tipping into something dangerous. 

Cardassians were, overall, highly sexual beings. Or perhaps that was only representative of the group Weyoun had contact with. Either way, Dukat reminded him of a commander of an invading army he’d once met back when he was the second Weyoun, sent to negotiate a peace treaty between the army and the Dominion. She’d been Weyoun’s very first personal experience with intimacy, and the Founders had praised him for it as it had been the only way to end the war. She had been the first to say he was _pretty_ , they’d had a real relationship for several months afterward, and even now Weyoun wasn’t sure if the relationship had been entirely to manipulate her into signing the treaty, or if he’d actually enjoyed it. 

Things were different than they had been then. The words the Founder had told him when they’d deactivated Weyoun three for being defective rung in his mind, pushing to the front of his thoughts whenever Dukat would smile at him in that one specific way, say something he knew would get a rise out of him, and it gnawed at him. 

The Jem’Hadar’s questioning of his loyalty, the echo of a never-spoken law against intimacy unless it was absolutely necessary for furthering the Founder’s plan, it all flowed through him. It was a constant wave of guilt brought on by his desperate _want_ , his _need_ , for affection, for love, for anything at all that wasn’t apathy and diplomatic niceties. 

So when he visited Dukat’s quarters late at night, he wondered if blasphemy was supposed to feel this exciting. He pressed the button outside Dukat’s door to alert him of a visitor, swallowing down the regret already forming a knot in his throat. 

He was defective, he _had_ to be. Certainly, no other Vorta felt this way. Of course lines of Vorta had been retired because their abilities weren’t up to par with the Founder’s standards, but it was rare. There was seldom such an intrinsic problem with a Vorta that couldn’t be fixed by some genetic reprogramming, it had only happened twice in over two thousand years. Weyoun didn’t want to be the third. 

It was a few long seconds before Dukat arrived at the door, opening it and squinting down at him.

“Weyoun,” he said, and he at least had the social graces to look surprised by this late-night visit which, all things considered, should have been expected. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

He was wearing what seemed to be the Cardassian equivalent of pajamas, it was really just a long robe with a single snap at the waist. Weyoun could feel his eyes on him as he glanced across Dukat’s body, closing his eyes briefly before looking away. 

He should look up into Dukat’s eyes like he usually did. Looking at the floor conveyed submission. 

He swallowed and moved his eyes back up, searching for something in Dukat’s face, for an emotion that wasn’t annoyance, anger, or poorly concealed lust. Nothing. Dukat wasn’t capable of any other feelings, at least not to Weyoun. It would be stupid to think he could give him the affection he craved, but he was here now, and he didn’t particularly want to turn back. 

“Weyoun?” 

He’d been quiet for too long and he still had nothing to say. His hand was twitching, tapping rhythmically against the side of his leg, a nervous tick he’d always had no matter how the Founders tried to reprogram him. 

“You seem like someone with experience in defying Gods,” Weyoun finally said, and Dukat blinked as if he hadn’t expected that, but his surprise smoothed out almost instantly. 

“I suppose some might describe me that way. Why don’t you come in?”

He did, he came in and glanced around Dukat’s quarters, feeling hopelessly out of his depth despite having done this a hundred times before. 

He could tell Dukat was watching him, watching as he examined the quarters, trailing his finger down a bottle of kanar sitting on the dresser before turning away from it. 

Dukat was at least half a foot taller than him because nothing in Weyoun’s life could be easy, and he had to stand on his toes to bring their faces as closely together as he wanted them. 

“I want to give them a reason to be angry with me,” he whispered, and their lips connected, he felt himself being pushed towards the bed almost instantly, allowing himself to fall back onto the incredibly soft mattress. 

“I can give them more than one,” Dukat responded, his voice a whisper in his ear that made Weyoun shiver. 

He nodded shakily, arms reaching up to grab at his neck, his shoulders, his back, pulling him down. “ _Please.”_

********

“Gul Dukat seems to have taken a liking to you,” the Founder said, their voice even and completely void of emotion, as it normally was. They stood together in one of the meeting rooms of Deep Space Nine, or rather, Terok Nor, whatever it was at the moment. 

Weyoun swallowed, he could feel his arms begin to shake and he brought them back to his sides before they noticed. He didn’t look up from the floor. “Yes, Founder. He is beginning to understand his place in this war,” he said softly.

“I only hope he remains that way,” they said, and when Weyoun found it in himself to look up, he breathed safely again. The Founders weren’t experts on humanoid facial expressions, being shapeshifters who didn’t often take humanoid forms and all, but Weyoun had learned to look for signs of emotion. There was nothing in their expression that indicated anger or disappointment--they had no idea of Weyoun’s most recent betrayal. 

“Of course he will,” Weyoun said, bowing his head again, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“See that you do.”

The Founder walked past him, he kept his false smile on his face until they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, and he was able to breathe a sigh of relief. He was safe. For now, at least. 

They never suspected.

Or perhaps they did, perhaps they knew everything, but couldn’t afford to kill Weyoun for his transgressions while they were already lacking in reinforcements and unable to clone new ones with the wormhole being (momentarily, he was sure) inaccessible.

He continued on with his day, pushing the guilt to the back of his mind. A thought struck him as he did so, and it made him laugh aloud, briefly thankful he was alone in the room for the moment. He could ask Odo for his forgiveness. Perhaps he’d even encourage Weyoun’s behavior and thoughts against the Founder’s wishes. As soon as the trickle of a laugh had entered him it left, replaced by the realization that he didn’t even _want_ Odo’s forgiveness, he didn’t want _any_ of the Founder’s forgiveness. 

The last time he’d been given forgiveness, it had been in the form of deactivation. He didn’t like his Gods’ definition of it (he didn’t like his Gods’ definition of a lot of things).

Then they lost Terok Nor. 

They lost Dukat along the way. 

Weyoun couldn’t find it in himself to miss him.

Besides, he’d be fine. The Federation didn’t treat their prisoners the same way the Dominion did. Not that he was worried, because he really, truly, wasn’t. 

The only thing he missed was not having to speak to Legate Damar, who shared the same hatred for Weyoun that Weyoun had for him, as often. Now they worked together. Because again, nothing in Weyoun’s life could be easy. 

Being killed in a transporter accident was almost a blissful relief, those short hours of nonexistence, he’d almost thank Damar for his sabotage. He was activated again, now Weyoun six, and he felt the same, but somehow incredibly _different._ He couldn’t place it. 

“We should strike back before they have the chance to reorganize their troops,” Damar said, and Weyoun felt himself flinch. He was thankful Damar wasn’t looking at him, but rather at the console in front of him. 

“Isn’t that a bit unsporting?” Weyoun asked, frowning. Where had _that_ come from? Normally he wouldn’t hesitate to attack weakened Federation troops; or rather, have the Jem’Hadar attack them, but for some reason, something about it wasn’t sitting right with him. 

Damar turned to look at him incredulously. “This is a _war,_ Weyoun, not a leisure activity.”

The venom in his tone made Weyoun take a step back, looking down at his shoes. “Of course you’re right. Whatever you think is best.” But Damar wasn’t right. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. “I’ll be in my quarters,” he said, backing out of the room. He stopped in the hallway, leaning against the wall and breathing evenly, trying to calm his heartbeat, but continued on when two Jem’Hadar walked past him. Once in his quarters, he locked the door behind him and slid onto the floor, his head in his hands. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t continue on like this. He didn’t want to anymore. What was the _point_ of worshipping Gods who couldn’t tell the difference between good and evil, righteousness and needless violence? 

Just thinking that made his headache. _I want to give them a reason to be angry with me_ , he’d whispered to Dukat that night. He leaned back, the back of his head hitting the doorframe uncomfortably as he glanced around his quarters, eyes falling towards his desk, where his console flashed at him like it was inviting him, daring him to do something. 

_I can give them more than one._

A small smile appeared on his face as he stood up.

Blasphemy was, once again, feeling quite exciting. 

He sent a coded message to Odo before he could even consider thinking the decision through. It would only be a matter of time before someone detected the message and came to interrogate him, or perhaps kill him on site for communicating with the enemy without prior authorization. 

He left quickly, trying not to make himself look too suspicious as he walked down the halls and outside Central Command, keeping his head down as he did. He managed to get out of the city without being detected, making his way to the underground caves Odo used to meet Gul Russol in, far enough underground they were unable to be detected by tricorders or any other form of scanning, and that was where he waited. 

It was nearly a full day before Odo arrived, under the impression he was meeting the Gul to receive top-secret information on the Dominion, and Weyoun took several seconds to compose himself before coming out of his hiding place behind a rock. His hand tapped against his leg as he stepped forward when Odo called Russol’s name again. 

“I’m afraid he couldn’t be here,” Weyoun said, and Odo whipped around, surprise in his face before it etched away to dull acceptance of his situation. 

“Weyoun.”

He took a few more small steps forward, bowing his head down and extending his arms. “Founder. It is an honor to stand in your presence once again.” He couldn't quite make himself believe the words, even if every molecule in his body was screaming at him to do exactly that. He said them anyway, listening to them as they flowed out of his mouth like a speech he’d once memorized but never listened to. They rolled around in his head for a moment before laying still, his thoughts quieting.

“Where’s Gul Russol?” Odo asked.

“I’m afraid the Cardassian Central Command had him… put to death almost a year ago.” 

Odo’s frown deepened like he’d expected that answer but was still disappointed in it. A pang of guilt forced its way through Weyoun, making him feel bad for causing a God pain even if he’d had nothing to do with the Gul’s death. 

“I regret having to deceive you, but it was the only way I could think of to get you here.” He didn’t regret it. He should. To deceive a God, to put him in danger, he should regret it. Instead, all he really felt was a sliver of hope. He might be _free._

“Well, I’m here. What do you want?” 

Wasn’t that the million-dollar question. What did Weyoun want? He wanted reassurance, he wanted affection, he wanted hope and he wanted acceptance. He still wanted love, although that was beginning to look more like a child’s daydream than a true goal. He didn’t say any of those things. Instead, he listened to what his genetics told him, what his programming said was the right response. 

“To serve you.” The words tasted wrong in his mouth, and he could tell even Odo didn’t believe them. “I no longer consider myself a member of the Dominion.” A sharp spike of pain shot through his body but he ignored it. If that was the only consequence of finally feeling safe he would be willing to live with it. 

“You’re _defecting?”_

Odo didn’t believe him, that much was obvious. 

“Do with me as you wish. I place my fate entirely in your hands.” He bowed his head again, feeling a sudden urge to pray. Not to the Founders, but perhaps to someone else. Someone above them. Was there anyone above them? He hoped there was.

There was that word again. _Hope_. What a fine word it was, and an even finer feeling. He looked up, into Odo’s distrusting eyes. 

“You don't believe me, do you?”

Odo was silent for a moment, tilting his head. “I believe Gull Russol is dead,” he said carefully. 

When Weyoun didn’t respond, Odo spoke again. “Why?” 

A good question, Weyoun supposed. One they did not have time for, the Jem’Hadar would locate Odo’s runabout at any moment now. “Founder-” he began, listening for any signs they might have been detected. He heard nothing yet, but the Jem’Hadar could be stealthy when they needed to. 

“I’ve told you, I’m not a Founder,” Odo interrupted him. 

“Odo, then,” Weyoun corrected himself. “I realize my place is with you.”

The look of disbelief on Odo’s face only strengthened. “You can do better than that.” 

He supposed he could. “I left Cardassia because my life was in danger.” That wasn’t true. Yes, his life was in danger, and yes, he’d left Cardassia, but to be perfectly frank, those two things weren’t related. 

“From who?”

 _Damar_ was the first answer that came to mind. He’d already been killed by him once, even if he couldn’t prove it. The Founders came next, they’d once again call him defective and this transgression might even result in the end of the Weyoun line. Other names popped into his head and he didn’t have time to give Odo a comprehensive list. “Everyone,” he decided.

“Aren’t you being a little paranoid?”

Weyoun had been called many things in his life, but he’d never been called paranoid before. He wondered if that’s what this feeling was, the fundamental distrust of everyone he had been feeling in the past weeks since Weyoun six had been activated. “Of course I’m paranoid, everyone’s trying to kill me.” In his opinion, that seemed like a valid answer. 

When Odo said nothing in response, Weyoun took a few steps forward, lowering his voice. “Think about it, Odo. The information I could provide you could help the Federation win this war. “

“And you would be willing to give me that information?” 

Why the hell else would Weyoun be here—he very nearly pointed that out but decided against it. He wasn’t even sure if he would be capable of speaking that way to a Founder. Even one who didn’t consider himself a Founder. “All you have to do is ask.” 

Odo’s eyes narrowed for a second. “We’ve heard rumors that the Dominion has established a new ketracel-white storage facility somewhere in sector 507.”

“The facility is located in the Pelosa system,” Weyoun responded instantly. “I can provide you with the exact coordinates.”

They stared at each other in silence, and Weyoun counted the seconds, again listening for the telltale sounds of someone finally locating his hiding spot. 

“Odo to _Rio Grande._ Two to beam up,” Odo said, and Weyoun breathed a sigh of relief. He was safe. 

_Hope._

Once on the runabout, Odo placed a hand on the back of Weyoun’s neck, directing him to sit down next to him. It was probably meant as threatening, to ensure he wouldn’t wander off, but he found the touch comforting. If there was one thing that had stayed the same throughout every iteration of Weyoun, it was his longing for physical contact. 

He couldn’t remember the last time, or a time at all in fact, that he had been in physical contact with someone platonically. 

As it happened, that would be the last day Weyoun would be in physical contact with someone for a long time. 

They were found within ten hours, and the fact that Weyoun seven had been activated before Weyoun six was even dead, well that rubbed him the wrong way. Apparently having two of the same Vorta cloned at the same time was yet another rule the Founders felt content with breaking as long as it benefited them. If they could break their own rules with no consequences, why was it that Weyoun wasn’t allowed to? The small voice in the back of Weyoun’s head answered for him, that they were Gods, they could do what they wanted. Weyoun was their servant. 

He had been created to serve them, to do what was asked of him no matter the cost, and yet here he was, flagrantly disobeying all of that. He smiled. He felt true joy at that moment, a real, miraculous, _happiness_. He’d managed to hate the very beings who had created him for the sole purpose of worshipping them. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Despite being fairly certain their runabout would be shot down within hours, the elation he felt didn’t vanish. 

“I’m glad someone’s having fun,” Odo said, glancing over at him. 

Weyoun’s hand ghosted across the back of his head, down to where the implant in his brain stem was located, and he laughed again. 

He remembered the way Dukat’s hands felt on his skin, the way the Founder had looked at him only days later and hadn’t known a _thing_ , the way he’d gone back to Dukat that same day and Dukat had whispered in his ear, _how very sacrilegious of you, Weyoun._

_Make me into something they’d be terrified they created. I want them to fear me. Give me power over them._

And now he had it. How could he ever go back? 

Obviously, he could, he would have to, and in a way, he already had. He wished he could talk to Weyoun seven, to ask him why he would sacrifice this feeling just to go back to worshipping Gods who had never cared about him. 

Weyoun stood up in the runabout, spinning around twice, his laughter echoing around him even in such a small space. 

Odo turned to watch him, his confusion evident. Weyoun paused in his spinning, a wide smile on his face, as he turned to the food replicator and punched in a random combination of numbers and letters. “I want to try every single type of food these things can make.”

And he did. He ate every kind of food he possibly could, foods he hadn’t been allowed to or never bothered eating before. 

“This is what happy feels like,” he said quietly, not quiet enough for Odo not to hear him, but enough for him to know not to respond. 

And it was okay, that Weyoun six knew he had to die as soon as the Jem’Hadar ships found them, and it was okay that, in a way, he was once again dying for a Founder, because Odo wasn’t a God. He’d rejected that part of himself, the same way Weyoun six had. He would be happy to die in defiance of everything the Founders stood for, and that was what he did. 

********

The Founders hadn’t given Weyoun seven any of the previous Weyouns’ memories. They didn’t have access to Weyoun six’s memories, they were lost along with any chance of getting Odo back on the Dominion’s side. But what about one through five? He had in his memory a list of every accomplishment previous Weyouns had made, but no specific memories. It was like they’d downloaded a database into his mind and forgotten to add the rest of it. It wasn’t his place to question the Founders. It wasn’t like it really mattered, he supposed. As long as he was serving the Founders well, his memories were unimportant. At least, they were unimportant until the day Dukat came back. 

“I’m telling you, they’re not well,” Damar said, and Weyoun glanced over at him as he responded. 

“How can a _God_ be ill?” 

Damar took a long drink of his kanar. “Maybe they aren’t a God.”

Weyoun turned towards him, his casual smile turning into an expression of annoyance. “Whether you believe the Founders are Gods or not is irrelevant, all they require from you is obedience.” Really, that was all they required of Weyoun as well, but at least Weyoun had enough respect not to question it. 

Damar didn’t answer, and Weyoun left only seconds later. 

He may not have the memories of past Weyouns, but he had the same information they had. He knew the Founders were ill and they had forbidden Weyoun from letting Damar and the other Cardassians know about it. Still, the question rang in his mind; _how can a God be ill?_ and he found he didn’t have an answer for it. But it wasn’t his place to question, he reminded himself, as he responded to the Founder’s summons to their quarters and entered. 

“Founder.” He tilted his head down. “It is an honor to be summoned to your presence.” 

“How is the vaccine progressing?” The Founder asked immediately, and Weyoun looked up, clasping his hands behind his back. 

“I regret that it failed to stabilize the latest sample you provided.” He paused for a moment, watching the Founder turn their back to him. “But I have a team of Vorta doctors working night and day to find a cure,” he added, watching as they turned around again. 

“Have them document their efforts and then eliminate them,” they said.

It took several seconds for Weyoun to process the information in that sentence. He tried not to let his fear and confusion show on his face, but evidently, they saw through his false look of confidence.

“Activate their clones and then order them to continue their predecessors’ work. Perhaps a fresh perspective will speed matters along.”

 _Perhaps_.

The look of pain on Weyoun six’s face as he’d been forced to deactivate himself flashed through his mind. He swallowed. 

“Of course.” He wondered if he could get away with not eliminating them, if the Founder would know the difference. It wasn’t like they ever personally checked up on their research. 

He felt horrible guilt for even considering such a thing. He wouldn’t do that, he wouldn’t disobey the Founders. His hands were shaking as he backed out of the room, far more quickly than was probably appropriate. In fact he moved so quickly he didn’t even notice someone in front of him until he walked into them. 

“Oh! My apologies, I- wasn’t looking where I was going.” He didn’t look up at the person’s face, he simply continued walking, his head down, trying to keep down his inexplicable urge to begin crying.

He was stopped by the person’s hand grabbing his wrist and pulling him back. He gasped in surprise.

“Weyoun.”

He knew that voice. He had to, he lived here and knew what everyone’s voices sounded like, but this one wasn’t that, he didn’t recognize it, but he _knew_ it somehow. It itched at the back of his brain and he couldn’t quite place it. At least, not until he looked up.

“Dukat,” he said, blinking several times in quick succession. “What are you doing here?” 

“I came to see Damar, I wasn’t expecting to run into you--quite literally, in fact.” 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Weyoun said, looking down at Dukat’s hand, which was still holding his wrist. 

“You wouldn’t kick me out, would you?” He said, and if Weyoun wasn’t mistaken, there was a fondness in his tone. 

When Weyoun didn’t seem to know how to answer, Dukat leaned down to look at him.

“What’s this?” He asked softly, and in an instant, he’d let go of Weyoun’s wrist and brought up his hand to delicately wipe away a tear that Weyoun hadn’t even realized was making its way down his cheek. He didn’t know if he’d ever cried before this moment. If he had memories of his past lives, he would’ve known.

“I…” he began, and the words died on the way out of his mouth. 

“Have you been crying?”

Well _obviously_ , Weyoun wanted to answer, but that felt like a rude response. He chose to stay silent. Dukat tilted his head at him, then took a step back, the door behind him sliding open, and stepped through the doorway. He gestured for Weyoun to follow him, which he did after several long seconds of simply staring. 

Weyoun really had no idea what was about to happen to him. Again, he found himself wishing for his memories. He didn’t know what kind of relationship he and Dukat had in the past, what he should expect when stepping into an otherwise empty room with him. 

“Did something happen?” Dukat asked, and Weyoun was incapable of answering. “You can tell me,” he prompted, and Weyoun’s eyes narrowed. 

“Why should I?”

Apparently, Dukat hadn’t expected this response. “I remember a time when you used to tell me all sorts of things,” he said softly. 

“I don’t.” It was true, he didn’t. 

“I don’t remember anything. When I was activated, the Founders didn’t give me the memories of the previous Weyouns.”

Frowning, Dukat took a step away from him. “Why not?”

Weyoun shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“And I didn’t ask. I’m sure they had their reasons. They’re _Gods.”_

Dukat smiled, and it was disturbing, like he knew everything Weyoun didn’t (which he probably did), like he could unlock the secrets of the universe for him right there. “Of course they had their reasons. If they knew about the things you told me, I’m sure they wouldn’t hesitate to erase them from your memory.”

“The Founders would never do that,” Weyoun argued, a deep frown appearing on his face. “And they wouldn’t need to, I would never speak against them.”

Dukat’s face searched him, and Weyoun had no idea what he was looking for. He stared back defiantly.

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Well, Weyoun. It was a great pleasure seeing you, and I do sincerely hope your memories somehow come back to you.” And with that, he was gone, out of the room, the door sliding shut behind him. 

Part of Weyoun wanted to chase after him, to force him to tell Weyoun what he knew, to prove somehow that he was telling the truth, but he stayed rooted to the spot. 

His head began aching. A scene played itself in front of his eyes when he shut them.

_Do you want this? Or are you only doing this to prove they can’t control you?_

_Does it matter? I’m doing it either way and I don’t see you complaining._

The words slipped into his mind and a spike of pain shot through the side of his head, making him cry out and fall to his knees. 

_I simply want to know, Weyoun._

_You just love the sound of your own voice. Stop talking for once._

He shook his head, trying to clear it, to make the words stop falling into his brain like they’d been puzzle pieces that had fallen from the box before the puzzle could be assembled and forgotten about until they were the only ones left. These weren’t his thoughts, they weren’t his memories, they _couldn’t be_. Weyoun would never do--those things, the things that were falling into his mind, he would never say those things, never speak against the Founders. 

Was this why the Founders hadn’t given him the memories of past Weyouns? Because he’d done this? But how could they possibly know? Dukat wouldn’t have told them, and besides, they would have simply terminated his line if they’d known he’d been that defective. Perhaps they suspected, or found out something else.

_Love._

That word was the last puzzle piece to fall, but it wasn’t enough to fill in the puzzle and no matter how hard Weyoun searched, he couldn’t find another piece. 

_Love_ was a word that had meant something to him at one point. It didn’t mean a thing to him now, and even with his limited recollection of his past, he couldn’t remember a time he’d actually _felt_ love. 

_It’s beginning to look more like a child’s daydream than a true goal._

He never had felt it. 

But it didn’t matter. 

The love for the Founders was all the love he needed. It was enough.

It had to be enough. 

It had to be.

********

_It isn’t._

That sentence repeated itself over and over again, so much that Weyoun found it difficult to think, difficult to concentrate throughout the day. 

_It isn’t._

_It isn’t it isn’t it isn’t it isn’t it isn’t._

An opportunity presented itself for Weyoun to solve this problem. It came when he was told to travel to Bajor, for some reason or another, because there was a problem with the peace treaty or they didn’t like the wording, it didn’t _matter,_ and, not that Weyoun would ever admit it (even to himself), he truly did not care. 

The important thing was that he had an opportunity to make his brain stop screaming at him, and yes this idea was blasphemous to say the least, but it was the best idea he had.

He approached the Bajoran temple and realized he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He stepped forward towards a Vedek, who glared at him with enough venom it nearly made Weyoun back away and forget this whole endeavour. Instead, he stepped forward, put his most sincere smile on his face, and spoke with as much confidence as he could muster.

“I need to consult the Orb of Wisdom,” he said.

The Vedk stared at him, his lip curling upward in distaste. “Why would I allow a Vorta to consult one of our Orbs?”

A good question. One Weyoun would ask were he in that position.

“Why wouldn’t you?” He retaliated, spreading his arms. “You would trust the Prophets not to put you in danger, so of course they wouldn’t reveal any information to me that might hurt you.” He managed a laugh. “They probably won’t show me anything.”

The Vedek glanced behind Weyoun, at the two Jem’Hadar soldiers guarding him, possibly weighing his options and wondering if he could get away with saying no. 

“What do you even need to know? Do you plan to ask if you’ll win the war, take over the universe, what?” 

The bitterness in his tone made Weyoun frown. He didn’t have time to tell the Vedek exactly how wrong he was because the Founders were _good, really!_ Instead, he shook his head. “Even if I did, do you really think they would tell me?”

Again, the Vedek looked towards the Jem’Hadar. “Tell your guards to wait outside, and I’ll lead you to it.”

Weyoun breathed a sigh of relief, briefly turning and waving the Jem’Hadar off. “Thank you.”

“Don’t bother thanking me, thank the Prophets if they deign to speak with the likes of you.”

The Vedek insisted on staying in the room as Weyoun consulted the Orb, citing the reasoning as being that he couldn’t possibly trust a Vorta to be alone with such a priceless artifact. 

He opened the cabinet the Orb was stored in, and the very first thing he thought was what a misnomer it was. They weren’t orbs. They were shaped more like pylons, or a vortex. Perhaps Bajorans simply had different definitions of what the word _orb_ meant. 

The second thing he thought was how bright it was. It glowed the same color as Weyoun’s eyes, and he’d always thought that if he had the ability to appreciate aesthetics, he would enjoy the color purple.

The third thing he thought was _oh, ow, that is bright, where am I._

And as it turned out, he was nowhere. He was standing on glowing white ground, looking out towards empty white space. He took a hesitant step forward. 

“Hello?” He asked hesitantly. As soon as his foot landed on the floor, it solidified around him. He was on a Dominion ship on the bridge, he could hear the ambient beeps and hums of machinery that he usually found relaxing, but there was no one else there. 

“Hello?” He called again, spinning around. He could hear his heart beating all around him. 

A laugh echoed through the bridge and he turned again, met with the image of… himself. Or rather, an illusion of himself, or of one of the previous Weyouns. 

“You’re the defective one,” he said, mirth shining in his eyes, a blissful expression on his face that Weyoun couldn’t imagine himself ever capable of. He spun across the room and vanished just before hitting the wall.

Quiet words echoed throughout the ship.

_That is what happy feels like._

Suddenly, he was somewhere else. It took him a moment to recognize the location as Deep Space Nine, and he spotted himself again--it was probably Weyoun five (he thought of Damar’s words, _keeping track of clones is a full-time job_ and he was beginning to understand the sentiment) walking down the hall towards him. He stopped at the doors to the quarters closest to him, pressing the door chime. It was opened in a few seconds, revealing Gul Dukat. 

“Back again?” He asked, addressing the other Weyoun. Neither of them seemed to know Weyoun seven was there. 

“I need to feel something.”

Weyoun blinked and he was in Dukat’s quarters, watching himself kiss him, and the scene vanished just as quickly.

_That is what power feels like._

_That is what desire feels like._

He was on his home planet. Weyoun hadn’t been back there in years. In fact, Weyoun seven had never been there. 

He was watching himself speak to a Founder. He stepped closer to hear the conversation but he couldn’t make it out. 

The Founder said something to the vision of Weyoun that made his eyes widen. 

The next words, he could make out.

“You are defective. Activate your implant.”

The Weyoun did as he was told. His hand was shaking as he reached to the back of his head. He looked away as the vision of Weyoun gasped in pain, falling forward. 

_That is shame. That is fear._

Next, he watched himself get murdered by a Jem’Hadar, a comrade-in-arms, for a reason Weyoun didn’t remember. 

_That is hatred._

It all faded away and he was left back in the blank white nothingness. 

A figure appeared in front of him and it quickly solidified into something distinguishable. It was Odo. 

“Do you understand?” He asked, and Weyoun stared at him with wide eyes. 

“I…” He began, before trailing off and shaking his head. 

“Why are you here?” He asked, and the question was so simple, the answer fell into place so smoothly, it was astounding Weyoun hadn’t realized it earlier. They didn’t call it the Orb of Wisdom for nothing.

He was back in the temple, kneeling in front of the not-orb-shaped-Orb, and he didn’t even register the loud _snap_ of the Vedek closing the box. 

_Why are you here?_

“Because the Founders aren’t Gods,” Weyoun said out loud, and it was so terribly obvious he could cry. 

The Vedek, apparently having heard him, snorted derisively. “I could’ve told you that. Come on.” 

Weyoun let himself be pulled upwards by the arm, led out of the temple, and deposited outside with his Jem’Hadar guards. He felt numb. 

The Founders… they'd taken so much from him. They took his memories, his _feelings,_ they’d taken his _life_ in every way possible. Only Gods were capable of such things, he thought. But Gods should be wise enough to know not to use those powers. They’d manipulated him on the most fundamental level, playing with his mind and his genetics and molding him into something that would serve their purpose.

But they’d made mistakes. 

Gods don’t make mistakes.

Gods don’t make mistakes, Gods don’t become ill, they don’t concern themselves with petty political matters, they don’t lie and manipulate and kill. And if they did, perhaps they weren’t Gods worth worshipping. 

Gods who prevented him from feeling happiness, from feeling desire and pleasure and longing, and yes, even hatred and sadness, didn’t deserve Weyoun’s devotion.

Gods who kept him from feeling love.

He had never felt love. Not once in thousands of years. His love for the Founders was artificial and plastic. There had never been a single instance of time when Weyoun had experienced any kind of real love, and he had the Founders to blame for it. 

The Vedek deposited him on the entrance steps and slammed the door behind him. Weyoun didn’t react to it. One of his Jem’Hadar guards came up to him and Weyoun involuntarily flinched, the memory of Weyoun four’s death once again fresh in his mind. 

He said something about their next allowance of white, gesturing towards the container Weyoun hadn’t even realized he was holding. He stared down at it, then set it on the ground and unlocked it. 

“Take it,” he said, stepping away from the container. “Take it and leave me.” He continued backing up down the steps before turning around and breaking into a run. He didn’t bother looking to see if the Jem’Hadar had come after him.

He couldn’t go back now and he knew it. Not that he had ever considered Cardassia to be his home, but it was the only one he had. He couldn’t very well go back to his home planet. He could request asylum with the Federation or Bajor, he supposed. Like that exiled Cardassian assassin who owned a shop on Deep Space Nine. Perhaps he could open a shop. He didn’t know what he’d sell, having no eye for design or aesthetics and about two taste buds. Perhaps he could do tricks on the Promenade, drink poison and do trapeze art. It wasn’t like he’d be allowed to get back into a career in diplomacy.

He didn’t stop running until he found himself in some sort of garden, lush green grass and bright flowers, birds chirping and the sun shining across a stream, making it sparkle. Weyoun wondered if it was beautiful. Dukat had said Bajor was beautiful, that it looked like a paradise wherever you went. He didn’t exactly trust Dukat’s opinions, so he wasn’t sure. 

It was empty of anyone else and he was grateful for that, it gave him an opportunity to climb a large tree that was in the middle of the grass and sit on the highest branch, curling his legs up and forming himself into a little ball. It was primal instinct, he was fairly certain all Vorta felt it from time to time, to climb up to the highest point in their immediate location and avoid their problems. Weyoun didn’t know where he would go after this, what he would do, if he would even be alive in the coming hours, let alone being alive long enough to make plans.

But for now, this was enough. It truly was. 

A single word played through his mind on loop, soothing him.

_Hope._

He could feel it, coursing through his veins and glowing a bright purple color as he closed his eyes. 

_Hope._

It was a beautiful word. _That_ was what beauty was, not a field of pigmented flowers or sun shining on a sparkling stream. _Hope._

**Author's Note:**

> i just want u guys to know i was _this_ close to ending the fic at the line “It had to be enough. It had to be.” right before the last scene break and never continuing it so everybody say thank u to me for making u guys marginally more happy
> 
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